


Things That Aren't Discussed

by ahausonfire (thisiswherethefishlives)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Dex doesn't get poetry as a rule, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Vaguely described sex, and a lot of emotional constipation tbh, but he wants to learn, it's a thing, nursey finds poetry in his shoes, nursey has a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswherethefishlives/pseuds/ahausonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't date so much as hook up, and it's fine. At least, it's fine until it's not, but they don't talk about it. </p>
<p>Nursey and Dex are in love, and it's not something that's discussed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's the love thing that fucks him up,

They don't date so much as hook up. 

And it's not that they couldn't date, or that it isn’t in the back of Nursey’s mind, it's just… they're busy (and he’s terrified). Between classes and practice and homework and kegsters and games and… there's just not a lot of time left for dating. Or talking about it. Or holding hands. Or a thousand other things that he's wanted to do with Dex - _for_ Dex - since the first time they kissed. He doesn’t think too hard about the fact that maybe the wanting started back when he first began thinking of himself as Nursey rather than Derek - when he started losing sleep over Dex - when he first got his hands all over that freckled skin.

So, yeah. They don’t date so much as hook up, and it’s fine. 

It’s okay, because there’s no one else that Nursey wants in his bed, or in his heart. And it’s alright, because there’s no one else whose words he’d choose to hang from like stars. And it’s chill, because that’s the only option he’s got, and he learned a long time ago that people are fickle, and they don’t always stay, so he takes what he can get, and he soaks up as much of the warmth from Dex’s skin as he’s allowed (and he falls in love).

It’s the love thing that fucks him up.

It fucking ruins him, because there’s poetry seeping out of his pores, and there’s inspiration around every bend, but every time he puts it to paper it morphs into everything they don’t talk about. It’s all fire and passion and flushed, perfect skin. It’s sharp words from soft mouths and the callouses that will never heal. It’s pages and pages (it’s thousands of words) but they’re not dating.

It’s somewhere around the third dog-eared journal that he looks for an outlet. 

He doesn’t look for a change, or a replacement, or a discussion, because that’s not what he wants. No, he looks for an outlet for the love that he’s stored up - he looks for catharsis - and he finds it in Poetry Nights at Annie’s (every other Monday at 7:00 p.m. sharp). It’s good. He can spin his words like gold - like webs - and he can set them free to polite applause and constructive criticism. He can tell them who he is, at the heart of him, and he can tell them (all seven regulars and miscellaneous guests) who he loves without naming a name. 

He can tell them about long limbs and red hair and strength, strength, strength. He shares it all - all the things he can’t say to Dex - all the things he can’t acknowledge. He sits there, under a spotlight, water to his left and notebook to his right, and he shares it all (and if a familiar silhouette sneaks out somewhere between one line and the next it’s probably just a trick of the light).

Because they don’t date so much as hook up, and somewhere along the line he fell in love. 


	2. and they don't talk about it,

The first time they hook up, Will thinks it’s a mistake. They’re drunk, way too drunk to do much of anything, but Nursey pushes him up against a wall and takes. They're drunk, but Will’s going to remember this first time, the warmth of Nursey’s hands under his shirt and the wet slide of Nursey’s lips against his own and the way that Nursey pulls back - wide-eyed and gasping - at the heavy tread of steps coming up the stairs. They separate, fumbling and so, so drunk, and they don’t talk about it, but Will remembers.

The next time Nursey kisses him, they’re not drunk. They’re supposed to be studying, but then Nursey’s chirping him, and then they’re wrestling, and then Nursey’s tongue is sliding against his own, and they aren’t drunk at all. There’s a split second of panic, because this isn’t in the plans (4.0, full-ride scholarship plans - hockey, get noticed by scouts plans - make it big, send money home to the folks plans - find a nice girl that can look past the big ears and freckles and everything else, settle down plans), but then Nursey’s got his hands in Will’s hair and he _tugs_ and it’s everything Will didn’t realize he wanted. He’s got Nursey draped over him, strong and heavy and so fucking hot, and it feels right. They kiss and they grind into each other, and hours later when Will’s lips tingle and ache from the stimulation, Nursey leans close and asks about last night’s homework, and they don’t talk about it.

It’s only after the third time they hook up, desperate and hot after a loss, that Will thinks he can have this. Even if they don’t talk about it. Even if it’s a secret from everyone else. Hell, he’d do anything Nursey asked of him to always have these stolen moments. And that… that’s the kicker, because without acknowledging it, Nursey went from being a pain in the ass to a tentative friend, from a tentative friend to an ally, from an ally to a best friend, and from a best friend to- well, to someone that Will wants to do less-than-friendly things with.

From then on, Will stops waiting for Nursey to initiate. He gets bolder, pulling Nursey into abandoned rooms and pushing him against trees in their twilight walks back to the dorms, and it’s good. He gets used to the feel of Nursey’s skin beneath his fingers and the way Nursey sighs against his mouth when they kiss. He learns the heft of Nursey’s cock and how he likes to be touched, just so. All of it - from the taste to the weight to the feel of Nursey, every inch of him - he studies like it’s his favorite subject (and it is). Still, they don’t talk about it, but Nursey melts at every one of Will’s touches, and he’s as chill as ever, and maybe it’s not something they need to discuss.

The poetry thing… well, it wasn’t supposed to be a big thing. It’s just, there’s only so long you can get chirped for a thing before it starts to weigh on you. And- okay, maybe Nursey’s always been right, and there’s not a poetic, romantic bone in Will’s body… but that doesn’t mean Will doesn’t think about what he’s missing out on. Will’s always been straightforward in who he is and what he gets. Machinery and numbers and hard work - it makes sense, and it’s tangible, and it’s what he knows. Poetry, though… it’s words on a page. Words that you can’t even take at face value, because it’s like every poet wants to confuse you and hide their meanings in symbolism, and maybe Will finds it more than a little pretentious. But- Nursey doesn’t find it pretentious. Nursey lives for words. He lives for hidden meanings and the music that apparently hides between syllables, and it makes Will want to learn, because Nursey is his favorite subject, and maybe - _maybe_ \- if Will can learn to understand poetry he’ll learn to understand Nursey. And then maybe Nursey will understand how important he is to Will.

So, Will starts to study (because he’s always been good at that). He starts by reading the poems that Nursey references so easily, and they stump him, because it’s pretty much all bullshit. According to Wikipedia, half of them are about vaginas, and the other half is about death, and that just doesn’t seem right. It just… it doesn’t make sense. So then he tries writing poems, to see if that’s where the appeal lies. He struggles with haikus and sonnets and gives up with freeform, because what the everloving fuck is the point if there isn’t some kind of pattern to follow? Will understands patterns, but the idea of struggling to fit his thoughts and feelings into a prescribed format makes his head hurt just as much as the idea of freeform poetry does, because at the end of the day, it’s so much more straightforward to just _say_ what you’re thinking.

So, yeah, poetry doesn’t make sense, but then Nursey drags his fingers along Will’s collar bone, or he sucks a dark mark into the jut of Will’s hip where no one can see, and Will remembers why he’s trying. 

He comes across the flyer for Poetry Night by accident, half-asleep and willing to do unspeakable things for caffeine, but his brain latches onto the idea. He doesn’t think about it until later that night when Nursey’s camped out on his bed (actually studying for once), but once the idea pops up Will can’t shake it. The idea of sitting in for Poetry Night makes him uncomfortable, makes him uneasy in a way that people who don’t fit in know so well, but it’s something he hasn’t tried. He’s tried reading poetry, writing poetry… it only makes sense that he try listening to people perform their poetry too. Nursey looks up from his reading, a small smile on his mouth, and Will wants to kiss it off his face. So, he does, if only to distract himself from the fact that maybe he wants to talk about this.

Annie’s is, in Nursey’s words, incredibly chill. With undergrads mingled with townies and the smell of freshly ground coffee in the air, it’s one of Will’s favorite places to study… but the energy is different tonight. It’s like… if he were Nursey, he’d say that there was electricity in the air, but really, everyone just seems like they’re in a good mood. Even the baristas are smiling, and it’s _nice_. By the time he’s got his coffee in hand, the poetry reading’s already in full swing, and it’s perfect. He just wants to listen, and he’s self-aware enough to know that he won’t get half of what they’re talking about, so Will tucks himself into a corner and listens. Two hipsters in, and he’s glad that he showed up a little late. It’s just… they’re ridiculous, with their ironically second-hand clothes and their fashionable anger, and it all feels fake and hollow. By the time Gheremy (“with a _Gh_ ”, god, what an asshole) steps off the stage to a smattering of applause, Will’s ready to head out, but then Nursey’s taking the spotlight and Will’s stomach falls, because- he just can’t have Nursey see him here. He can’t, because then he’ll have to explain, and just because he’s trying to learn the way into Nursey’s heart doesn’t mean that Will’s ready to _tell_ him. They don’t _talk_ about whatever it is between them, like it’s some kind of dirty secret, and maybe this isn’t the night to fix that.

So he gathers up his notes and his coffee, and he keeps his head low so that Nursey won’t see him leave… but then Nursey’s words start ringing out - clear, and deep, and beautiful in the way that everything Nursey says is beautiful - and Will’s heart skips a fucking beat. It skips a literal fucking beat, and Will’s rooted to the spot, because Nursey’s poetry is flowery and flowing, and it’s not straight forward, but it’s clear enough. He’s talking about love, and he’s talking about secrets, and he’s talking about soft red hair and freckles. He’s talking about _forever_ and _never_ and Will needs to leave, because whatever this is - whether it’s about Will, or it’s just wishful thinking - this was never supposed to be Will’s business.

He ducks out of Annie’s like he’s got something to hide, and then he’s sprinting back to the dorms. He’ll feel it later, he’s sure, but the panic that’s thrumming in his veins needs the exertion. It needs the movement and the freedom and the feeling of being chased. He’s running on panic and he’s running on hope, and everything that he’s made up of hopes that the love Nursey wrote about was for him. He hopes that Nursey doesn’t just have a type, that it’s not some other angry redhead that he wants to give his heart to. He hopes, in this moment, more than he’s ever hoped before in his life, but- 

After months of not talking about this thing between them, Will realizes that he doesn’t know where to start. 


	3. until it's vital.

The poems start showing up out of nowhere, and at first, Nursey’s convinced that it’s him. That he’s forgetful, that he’s shedding poems like hair, or good habits, and he doesn’t think much of it. Stranger things have happened, after all. He’s socialized with NHL athletes and he’s been legit haunted by ghosts (no matter _what_ Dex says), and he’s managed to fall in love with the last person he would have expected. So, yeah. In the grand scheme of things, finding snippets of poetry in weird places isn’t that strange.

So, it’s not something he pays much attention to in the moment… he just starts to keep a tighter hold on his papers, is all. He starts to keep track.

It’s only _then_ that it sinks in that the poems aren’t his.

_**You have changed me already. I am a fireball** _

They’re clipped lines from O’Hara and Bradstreet and Gizzi. They’re poems he’s thumbed over, or poems that he’s never heard of, and they’re ripe and full of promise. Wrinkled little corners ripped from a page, smudged with ink, and lead, and something more heavy than hope, because there’s only one person in his life that has access to his bag and his books and his bed.

**_That is hurtling towards the sky to where you are_ **

The thing about hope, though, is that it can be many things, but it can never be _real_.

It can be life affirming, and it can sustain you, and just like love it can lift you up where you belong… but hope isn’t a promise. It’s not a solid thing that you can pin your heart to, and sometimes it’s not worth the risk.

**_You can choose not to look up but I am a giant orange ball_ **

He finds lines of poetry on his pillow. Stuffed between the pages of his textbooks. In his left sneaker. Taped to his door. In his back pocket.

He finds poetry everywhere, but Dex is the same. He’s sarcastic and grating - brilliant and sharp - soft and yielding when all the lights have been turned off.

_**That is throwing sparks upon your face** _

Dex hasn’t changed, but the hope that lives in the corner of Nursey’s heart keeps growing. Determined, it pulses with every discovery and it heats with every breath that they share. If Nursey’s heart is a furnace, his hope is a roaring fire… but it’s not enough.

Because hope isn’t tangible, and Dex is the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I fucking lied when I said this would be wrapped up with the third installation. I have a vague plan now, but I'm not going to disclose it until this shit gets finished.
> 
> Anywho! The poem that's interspersed through this short interlude is called [Poem to an Unnameable Man by Dorothea Lasky](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/54481). 
> 
> I like to imagine that it's one of the first snippets of poetry that Nurse finds in his shoes (he finds a lot of poetry in his shoes... it's weird), and that it's the first one to really make him look at Dex and _hope_.


	4. until it bears repeating.

The first time that Nursey disregards the poetry Will leaves him… well, it happens. If Will had a penny for every time that Nurse was oblivious, he wouldn’t need a scholarship. Hell, he wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.

But, no… the truth of the matter (which becomes more and more obvious with every scrap of poetry that is disregarded or shrugged off as one of Nursey’s own) is that Will has fallen in love with the most oblivious person in the whole damn world. Or, at least the most oblivious one on campus…

Whatever.

The point is, two weeks and 92 scribbled scraps of poetry later, Will is done.

He’s over it.

He’s over the meaningless hookups that developed into more than he could have ever asked or hoped for.

He’s over the way that they’ve never talked about what it is that they’ve been doing beyond logistics. How Nurse will ask what he wants - _hands, mouth, more_ \- and Will just wants to say _you_.

He’s over the looming anxiety that Nursey will find someone braver, and he’s over the reality of being someone’s dirty secret… of having someone be his dirty secret in return.

Will is done, and that’s why he’s here, in the threshold of Nursey’s room with fuckin butterflies in his stomach, waiting for a reaction beyond the dumbass look on Nursey’s grossly handsome face.

“Wait, you _love_ me?”

Yeah, there’s a pressure behind Will’s eyes that feels a lot like a headache and a little like annoyance, and - _god_ , Nurse is supposed to be the one that’s good with his words. Nurse is the one that’s supposed to be poetic, and romantic, and good at this shit… but he looks like a fish - mouth gaping, eyes wide and trapped - and for the first time since he marched through Nurse’s dorm to knock on his door… for the first time, Will _thinks_ about what he’s doing.

Because this isn’t the reaction he had hoped for.

And… _maybe_ , a traitorous little voice in the back of his head whispers, _maybe this was a huge mistake_.

“Bro, seriously. You can’t just say that. You can’t just…” Nurse trails off, and of all things, _that_ is the breaking point.

“I can’t just _what_ , Nurse? I’ve been saying it for weeks - it’s not my fault that you haven’t been paying attention…” There’s silence then when Will stops speaking long enough to take a ragged breath, the kind that burns on the way down, and that’s… there’s been enough that’s gone unsaid to fill a fucking lifetime, and Will is done. “You know what? Don’t call me dude when I’ve sucked your dick. I fucking _hate_ that, Nurse. I’m not your fucking bro, okay? We’re not Random and Holster, and I don’t _need_ to be your bro. I don’t want that.”

He’s panting by the end of it, and it feels like more than he’s said to Nurse in the entire time that they’ve known each other.

And-

Nurse just stands there. He just stands there, and he isn’t saying anything. He’s not filling the silence, and he’s not reacting, and this was a mistake. Thinking that they could have had _more_ was a mistake.

With disappointment and something that feels a lot like hurt pooling high up in his chest, Will takes a deep breath before turning to leave… which, it turns out, is hard to do. Because there are fingers wrapped around his wrist, strong and warm and unwavering (all the best things about Nurse when they fall together) and - look, normally Will would fight. He’d pull away, he’d spit like a kettle… he’d do anything it took to run... but he’s _tired_.

He’s tired, he’s worn down, and even with rejection looming overhead, the weight of Nursey’s skin against his is enough to root him to the spot.

“Will,” Nursey says, soft and pretty like he’s not about to ruin everything. Like he’s not about to ruin Will beyond all recognition. “Can you look at me?”

And that… it’s a simple request, but the more Dex thinks about it, the more it fucks him up. Because, all of this was impulse - slow, and steady, and sticky without any actual focus on the possibility of fallout. The idea of turning to face Nurse makes his stomach curdle. The idea of _facing_ this moment, like a deer in the headlights… it’s too much.

The fingers at his wrist tighten for a moment, shaking him out of his thoughts, and all Will can do is shake his head, because he can’t face this.

He can’t.

So he keeps eyes down, and his face turned away, and he waits.

“Okay… okay, that’s chill. It’s _fine_ , just… can you listen? I mean, you’re right. You’re not my bro, and I’m sorry.”

Will doesn’t mean to snort at that, but it happens all the same. To Nursey’s credit, he doesn’t rise to the bait. He doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t make light. No, he just keeps going.

“He knows I don’t need saving & rescues me anyhow

_Our often-misunderstood kind of love is dangerous_

_Darling, fill my cup; the bird has come to roost”_

It’s one thing to copy the words to paper… to leave them hidden, like treasure. Like a secret. It’s another thing entirely to hear those words from Nurse’s lips. It hits like a punch to the gut, leaving him feeling sharp and breathless, because Nursey - the pretentious hipster asshole he’s fallen in love with - is quoting his most recent offering. And, like, it’s beautiful from his lips, but… seriously?

“ _Seriously_ , Nurse? I left that in your fucking _shoe_ , and that’s what you’re gonna quote at me?”

“I told myself that it wasn’t you… that it _couldn’t_ be you,” Nurse breathes the words out, and he’s close. He’s close enough where each syllable ghosts against Will’s skin, and it’s so much. It’s _too_ much. He’s _too_ close, all muscles and body heat and everything that Will wants, pressed firm against his back.

“If it was you,” Nurse continues, releasing Will’s wrist, only to pull him ever closer by the hips. “If it was you, this would be real… and the idea of losing something real with you… it would devastate me, because you’re everything my heart has come to want.”

It’s the work of a moment for Will to let himself go boneless into the embrace. To let Nurse bear his weight. To bear his heart.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Nurse? We could have…”

Even as the words come out, Will knows that there’s no ending to the sentence. There’s no _knowing_ what they could have had earlier. No knowing if it would have worked, or if they would have crashed into pieces before taking their first tentative steps.

“I couldn’t imagine a world where I would get to love all of you.” The words are clipped, short and so different from the way Nurse had sounded reciting poetry. “And, like, if I can have you, I don’t know how I’ll ever let you go.”

It hurts to hear the ache behind Nursey’s words. It hurts, and Will’s had enough hurt to last for a good while. It’s with that thought firmly in his head that he turns around, slow enough to let Nursey’s hands rearrange - from resting on his hips to circling around to meet in the small of his back - Will turns into Nurse’s arms, careful and sure at the same time, until they’re eye to eye and chest to chest… and he can see how guarded Nurse is. How hopeful. Scared.

With a deep breath (because he can feel the butterflies running rampant in his stomach even now), Will says the only thing he can.

“I love you.”

Standing this close, he can see how Nursey’s eyes soften immediately at Will’s words, so he says them again.

“I _love_ you.”

He’ll say the words as long as it takes for them to sink in.

He’ll say them forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem that Nursey is quoting is: _Whom You Love_ by Joseph O. Legaspi


End file.
